


Scarborough Fair

by MirrorMaiden



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Canon Era, Humor, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 10:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15117278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMaiden/pseuds/MirrorMaiden
Summary: The man who came to Caisil with Esca Mac Cunoval sets fire to a heart brave and true. Now, if only he'd turn and notice...(or "Until All The Songs Are Sung", as seen through the eyes of Dergorix).





	Scarborough Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Until All the Songs Are Sung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/225898) by [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen). 



The first time Dergorix son of Cingetorix sees the man he would come to know as Eriros, all he can think of is how tall he is.

His eyes linger more on the dark man with the angular, precise features of the Romans than on his light-haired companion as they approach the front gate of Caisil, mistrust skittering like a spider in his guts. The dark man is the strangest sight to have been had for many seasons, and Dergorix only narrowly manages to still his hands on his spear, eager as he is to put the man in his place.

Dergorix doesn’t, however, resist engaging them first, as is his duty and right as sentry. “What is your business in Caisil?” He would have given the dark man an impressive glower, if only said man had looked at him, and had not been staring fixedly at his lighter companion.

 And then the lighter man speaks in unaccented British, and Vellocatus, his fellow sentry, finally places him.

“Stand down, Dergorix, this is Manduovinda’s nephew, your kinsman.”

Dergorix does stand down then. So, this man is a Brigantes, but his companion –

He does not have time to ask before the two are enveloped in a whirlwind of people, whispers of _Esca, the last living man of the eastern clan,_ on almost every tongue.

* * *

They meet again when he is asked to lend some clothes to Esca. Esca, his _cousin_ , distant but kin nevertheless.

Dergorix hardly knows how to behave then. He was well within his rights to question Esca and his companion, but it is still rather unfortunate to have behaved so to a kinsman; furthermore, as Cunoval’s son and Manduovinda’s nephew, Esca is amongst the first of his people. Dergorix, for all that his reputation as a warrior is rising like sparks from a bonfire, and for all that men and women alike track him with their eyes, he will still occupy a place at the table far from Esca.

And it is not in Dergorix’ nature to be cruel or unwelcoming. He summons all his goodwill accordingly as he goes to make a second impression upon them.

He finds the men awaiting him outside Manduovinda’s house, Esca looking around him with a mingling of joy and faint despair, the larger man closed off and quiet, an animal in unfamiliar territory. He stands tall however, Dergorix notes, firm, unlike a bondsman would.

“Clothes, cousin,” he reaches for Esca with his unoccupied hand, and Esca offers up his own arm to be clasped, “and an apology for how I spoke to you. Manduoriga had left eastward by the time I was a boy, and so I would not know her face. I welcome you to Caisil.”

“Pay that no mind,” Esca responds like he truly means his words, “We thank you in kind for your welcome.”

Dergorix has not forgotten the man behind his cousin. “I welcome you too…”

“Eriros,” the man answers, and Dergorix is surprised by how deep his voice is, “of the Trinovantes.”

Dergorix wonders if his surprise appears nervousness, for Eriros quirks his lips in a smile. His eyes thin to slivers and Dergorix is put in mind of hound puppies, and how they all but close their eyes when they open their mouths to sound the tiny squeaks that will one day grow into barks. It’s an incongruously gentle thing on such a strong face, but not unpleasant.

Esca looks over his shoulder then, as if looking for something. “We must prepare for the feast.”

“Of course,” Dergorix realizes they must be looking for the river, and points with his entire hand, “the Súir is that way.”

Esca smiles at him and nods. Eriros simply nods.

At the feast that night, Esca is cheerfully interrogated by everyone: they ask about their journey, about Britain, about Caledonia and the land of the Atrebates. They ask what they have done to survive and Esca tells them of travels and a steady trickle of coin to be had for small tasks, sometimes as warriors, sometimes as farmhands. It is as if they have ridden and walked and run the length of the isle entire, and for how few words Esca uses for each part of his tale, theirs is a story to inspire wonder, one which his audience listens to as if in a trance.

Eriros keeps his eyes down for the most part, apparently content with his own plate. Dergorix is seated far across from them, too far to ask the questions occasionally bubbling to the surface of his mind, but a few inquiries do come Eriros’ way, and the tall man answers them with few words in rough British – he has an accent that makes his words end bluntly.

It is during one such question that the right flicker of firelight catches Eriros’ face and his eyes gleam green, the young green of plants newly sprouted. Their color, obscured until then by Eriros’ dark lashes and thick eyebrows, takes him by surprise, for they are gentle eyes. Quite gentle for such a large man, for a warrior, if Esca’s tales are to be the judge. Eriros is a curious blend of fierceness and tenderness, like the best hunting hounds, and it draws a smile to Dergorix’ face: it is in his heart that he would know more of this dark man from Britain.

At the end of the feast however, Esca and Eriros are amongst the first to excuse themselves to sleep, wearied by travel as they are.

Ah, a shame. But the night is not over for Dergorix.

Before rising from his seat close to the fire, he meets the eyes of young Prastos over the length of the table. Prastos of the white-gold hair, of a lively manner and dark, fathomless eyes, has looked at Dergorix, like a thirsting man might look at the waters of the Súir, for many days; Dergorix finally finds it in him to indulge it. He flicks his head towards the door and Prastos’ eyes widen a fraction – if they weren’t in the company of all of Caisil, he is sure Prastos would smile wolfishly back.

They slip away, first one, then the other, and a few of Dergorix’ hunting companions seem to have caught on, for he feels eyes on him and catches the faint rumble of a chuckle.

He catches up to Prastos in the narrow alcove created by two roundhouses. Prastos is muscular but small, well-shaped, and Dergorix seizes the chance to bare down on him, caging him with his arms.

“You honor me, Dergorix son of Cingetorix, with your attention,” Prastos manages to whisper, playfully, between gasps and nipped kisses.

“The gods smile upon you,” Dergorix says, and then laughs, for he is only a braggart during feasts. And then he finds the firm curve of Prastos’ ass and there is little breath for more jests between them for a long time.

* * *

As he drifts off to sleep with the exultance of release heavy upon his arms and legs, so late it is near morning, a memory of bright green eyes flits into Dergorix’ awareness. He thinks, dazedly, that it is strange, for the eyes that widened in pleasure for him just a few hours earlier are dark, coal black, and then he falls into the oblivion of dreams.

* * *

Dergorix takes Prastos to bed for a few more nights before the two call it done. Ordinarily, Dergorix would then give himself some time to survey the lands for another worthy conquest, but he finds himself unconvinced by the gazes that strive to catch his eye. Instead, he finds himself often in the company of his cousin Esca.

Esca is a man of reflective silences, but he lends Dergorix a polite ear and is even moved to answer a few times. Dergorix soon grows fond of him, this silent man who has weathered storms and battles with his brow high.

But Dergorix also wonders at how often Esca is alone, or in the company of Manduovinda – these days, Eriros is only by his side when the night grows thick and both men curl up close together on the furs of the communal sleeping space. The thought stays with him, quiet but constant, a creature of the night amidst tall grasses.

Words finally tumble out of Dergorix’ lips one day, unbidden, as he escorts his cousin to the forge of Avitorix the Smith. “How fares your friend Eriros, cousin? I would think he would be more often in your company, thrust into a strange place as he is.”

A hint of warmth appears in Esca’s storm cloud blue eyes then. “Eriros is well.” There is a long pause, and Dergorix wonders if the conversation is over, and: “He detests idleness, that man. I believe he has taken up woodworking and carpentry.”

“Is he good?”

Esca laughs fondly. “Eriros has the infuriating habit of excelling at the tasks he dedicates himself to. I would believe he is.”

As if some god has heard his inquiry, Dergorix finds one of his youngest cousins with an admirably carved wolf toy, on the sunset of that very day.

“Hey now, _drutos_ , what is this fearsome creature?” And Dergorix grabs the youngling under the armpits for a playful spin.

“It is the work of Eriros!” the child exclaims, “It looks poised to howl!” He waves the carved wolf in his older cousin’s face, making howling sounds as he does, before breaking free to hawk his new toy to his compatriots. It’s a handsome carving indeed, with a well-made face and firm paws that will endure imaginary hunts for a good few years.

He sees Eriros at the task himself four days after that, carving as he perches on the wall of a sheep pen. The sight of such large hands so capable of precision and detail is rather interesting, and Dergorix turns his mind to what other talents hands like those might possess, accompanied by a tug of heat below his stomach.

Dergorix catches himself and chuckles. _Eriros is an unquestionably handsome man_ , he muses _, and I would not mind seeing his green eyes from up close_. But will be a hard hunt, with how quiet and solitary Eriros is (more so than even Esca), a labor of patience and long waits; the task, if Dergorix will take it, means he will not partake of his reward for a long time yet, particularly with how Eriros seems to pay him no mind.

(There is also something else, something Dergorix can’t quite pin down, about the warmth in Esca’s eyes when he talks of his shieldbrother, about the way Eriros never looked away from Esca at their first meeting, it is important to his undertaking, but its full meaning eludes him, darting away like a hunter's quarry through thick bushes …)

Dergorix is half resolved to set eyes elsewhere, despite the way Eriros’ tall frame draws his gaze. And then comes the day of the boar hunt.

Esca performs admirably, as he should, striking the boar first and firmly once the beast is properly cornered. Esca moves with commendable grace, so much that little Matudubus’ eyes widen to see it, but it is Eriros who pins the boar fully, who strikes at his heart and finally brings the end to the first chase. It is quite a sight, the tall Trinovantes with his arms firm as hawthorn limbs, battling the animal’s death throes.

Perhaps it is simply that he has lost Lovena today, and his heart is defenseless. But the truth of the matter is that Dergorix finds the sight …moving. It does not set fire to his blood, as such a sight might. Instead, it turns him solemn, as a man watching the sacrifice of the bull during Lughnasadh might feel, touched by the mingling of strength and despair and triumph.

* * *

All told, it isn’t until later that day, after Esca and Eriros return from being lost, after the duck hunters and the boar hunters are reunited and returned to Caisil, that Dergorix realizes he is in trouble.

Lovena returns with them, lovingly wrapped in a blanket, to be laid into the ground close to where she lived and loved. Dergorix enjoyed the hunt, thrilled at the chase and laughed, but now that his blood has cooled he is quiet and pensive: he loves his hounds, adored Lovena, and does not take her parting lightly.

He is only aware that he has stopped his horse close to Eriros when he feels eyes on him, and turns to find that the eyes that follow him are green. Eriros dismounts, mindful of the leg of which he is always wary, and heads towards him brazenly indeed for such a quiet man. “I was sorry to see you lost your hound.”

Dergorix looks at him with faint surprise. “You saw.” Most of the hunters knew Lovena was his, but he has not told Esca, and certainly not Eriros.

“You went pale and pained at her death. I suspected.”

Dergorix nods then, moved once more. “She was mine, yes. Raised from a pup.”

“Then I am sorry.” And with true emotion in his green eyes, Eriros claps a hand briefly to his shoulder.

And Dergorix’ heart leaps.

As the horses are led away to the stables, the bondsmen to hand the boar over to be cooked, the hunters to the river or to their homes to make themselves pleasant for the feast, Dergorix stares as Eriros follows Esca, riveted in an entirely different way.

Eriros is handsome, enough to send the young women all a-titter when he walks past. He is a skilled artisan and a mighty hunter, but he is clearly a decent man above all this.   _Here is someone who would tend to his lover’s heart as well as his body,_ Dergorix thinks…and almost laughs aloud. _I have been doubtful of this quarry, but it seems my heart is a more decided hunter than I would have believed._

It is settled. Dergorix would take the Trinovantes for himself. Now he must simply make sure the Trinovantes wishes to be taken.

The gesture of the fibula is subtle enough. Dergorix can see Eriros misses the significance of it, as will almost everyone else: it is a testing of the waters. He learns then that Eriros likes him enough to accept the loan, for he could have shied at the idea of taking anything of Dergorix’. It also pleases him somewhat, to see his own fibula at the tall warrior’s shoulder, like a quiet expression of _lo, Dergorix has his eye on this one_ , to anyone who might have the ingenuity to seek it.

 _Best watch yourself, Trinovantes_ , he’d told Eriros during the boar hunt. Now, as he watches him beside Esca during the feast they have provided, smiling warmly here, looking contemplative there, Dergorix repeats the warning quietly. _Best watch yourself, Trinovantes. For I have given chase._

* * *

A few days later, Dergorix sees Esca alone, sharpening his dagger on the edge of a sheep pen. Eriros has appeared at his cousin’s side more and more since the hunt, and while Dergorix is pleased at that, for many reasons, he has needed Esca on his own for a while.

 He must make sure he is the only hunter on the heels of his green-eyed eagle. He must know that it is not Esca after him too, at least. He will jostle away anyone else, but not Esca, whom he is so fond of.

(Esca is quite worthy, Esca has prior claim, and Esca might jostle _him_ , if…but Dergorix tries not to take that particular path in his mind…)

“So, my cousin,” he starts, drawing on his natural good humor, “it is a time since you’ve come to Caisil, and I have yet to see you choose a lover.”

Busy as he was with his dagger at the whetstone, Esca jolts at the words and turns to stare at Dergorix, surprised and already guarded.

 “Have the women not been to your liking?” Dergorix presses.

“I…never meant to offend –“

At that, Dergorix cannot help it: he laughs. “Are we not kinsmen? Can we not speak of this like brothers would? I have no sisters to fear for, and my cousins all have husbands.”

Esca seems to loosen a fraction at the words. “Well…I have not been looking.”

“And what of the men?”

“I was not much versed in the way of warriors before the fall of the Brigantes.”

“Ah, so Eriros was your first?”

Esca colors ever so slightly. “He was not.”

His tone warns Dergorix not to press further, not for shame or anger, but in deference to Esca’s nature, protective of his intimacies.

So they have lain together. He’d suspected, having seen Esca and Eriros slip away sometimes; he would never have noticed if he had not been watching with dedication, so it is likely that only he has seen.

This tells Dergorix that Eriros would be open to his advances. It does not, however, tell him much about what binds him to his cousin, other than the pledge of a man to his shieldbrother; it does not tell him if Esca would be displeased at Dergorix, should he insist on pursuing this quarry.

Cautious, Dergorix tries a different path. “Eriros has kept to himself as well. It is a wonder that he has not heard the girls, returning from the grasslands with their sheep, sighing when he walks past them to sit on the wall of your aunt’s pen.”

Mild surprise appears on Esca’s face. “He is a man often preoccupied with his own mind.”

“I have seen one or two hunters’ eyes wander after him as well. He is fair, your shieldbearer.”

Esca’s mouth turns down almost imperceptibly at the corners, but his voice is gentle when he answers. “Then they would all do well to speak their minds instead of sighing and staring, or Eriros will never notice.”

Dergorix is not full sure of his cousin’s feelings on the matter, but something tells him it is as much as he will get without asking directly. Thus, the hunt continues in earnest.

He is kind to Eriros, when he can. As he was warned, the man is often concerned with things deep in his mind, quiet and abstracted, but Dergorix likes to think he has a lively feast in his soul, more than enough to cheer anyone, and so he directs him frequent smiles. Eriros sometimes responds in kind, eyes narrowing and smile so brilliant it is near dizzying.

Eriros is kind to children, even finds a kindred spirit it Avitorix’ daughter Catia. Other children follow him too, eager to see him scratch horses, sheep and birds out of formless wedges of wood, and Eriros talks _to_ them, not down at them. It is heartwarming to watch, for Dergorix is fond of pups, hound-pups and man-pups alike. He grows fond of Eriros, in a different, somewhat more possessive way than he is fond of Esca, and so it is that when Eriros comes to return the loaned fibula, Dergorix barely thinks before deciding to gift it to him.

The gift is perhaps too bold a gesture, born more of his mounting affection for the man than of any strategy. But truly, Dergorix would give him that single trinket and more besides, if Eriros would let him. His quarry is briefly wrong-footed by the gift, but he wanders off at the end of their conversation without acknowledging the implications of his new fibula or even responding to Dergorix’ hints about Esca. He is like a child himself sometimes, his Trinovantes.

Were Dergorix fanciful, he would imagine himself in love with Eriros already – but Dergorix is not a green boy anymore. He knows what he is feeling. And yet it would not be such terrible a thing, to love Eriros, he finds himself thinking, and truly it wouldn’t. One has but to see his loyalty to Esca, to know that to own Eriros’ heart would be a thing of solidity and honor, like a warrior’s armband or a golden torc.

That night, though Eriros seems withdrawn and dull-eyed during the evening meal, Dergorix catches the glint of the fibula on the other man’s shoulder, and pretends for a moment that he wears it so that Dergorix might see it.

* * *

The hunt must pause for the raid. Eriros will not be coming, for his wounded leg makes his slower than he’d like. For any other man, the raid would be a chance for closeness, but Dergorix would not have expected it of Eriros, not yet. He is glad for the raid, nevertheless: perhaps Eriros will learn to miss him now that he will not be there to smile and draw him out of his dark shell.

In the cold hours before the dawn of their parting, as the horses are readied for the journey south, to the Iverni and the cattle, Matudubus drifts close to Dergorix and his chosen mount. There is a line between his brows, faint, and his eyes are troubled.

Dergorix frowns. “What is it? Have you lost a spear?”

“I have asked Esca to lay with me, brother, asked that he be my first, and he has said no.” Matudubus looks then like he did years ago, when their father had told the young boy, barely recovered as he was of a winter fever that might have killed him, that he was not to go on what would have been his first cattle raid. He is disappointed and dispirited, but accepting.

That he has asked this of Esca comes as no surprise, for Matudubus gets so tongue-tied in their fair cousin’s presence that Dergorix wonders if he’s said five whole words to Esca since his arrival – it surprises him more that Matudubus found the courage to ask. Esca’s answer, though he had never considered it before now, is also what Dergorix would have believed it would be.

But he can say none of this to Matudubus now, of course. “And has Esca been unkind is his refusal?” Dergorix softens his voice as much as he can.

Matudubus’ lips crumple in upset. “He smiled, and you know that Esca never smiles. Then he told me it was too great an honor for a man without house or cattle, and put his hand on my head as if I were a _child_.” He says the last word as if it were a particularly bad curse.

 _Ah_ , Dergorix realizes, _so it his pride that is hurt_. Wounded pride recovers as a wounded heart might not – but at sixteen, Matudubus’ pride is still soft. “I am sorry to hear you are cross in love. But take heart: Esca must think highly of you, to want to make sure that your first is worthy of you.”

“But I wanted him! He is…” and Matudubus’ eyes grow wide and bright, like they did to stories of the hero Cú Chulainn. He worships Esca it seems, and would have his devotion sanctioned with caresses.

It softens Dergorix to heart it. “Take heart, my brother. You are a hunter and a warrior, and with all the cattle from this raid you will become irresistible to every man and woman and…and goat and lamb of Caisil: you’ll see how they all will love you, and follow you where you might go.”

Matudubus laughs, even as his back goes spear-straight with indignation. “You too treat me as a child, Dergorix! For shame!”

“Do not pout like one, and I may be less inclined to do so!” Dergorix shoves his brother’s head down, neatly avoiding Matudubus’ answering swipe.

It’s the first day of journey gone before Dergorix can speak to Esca, alone, where it will not shame his brother to hear them. He gets his chance at night when Esca, by happenstance, claims the third watch of the night, as does he.

“La, my cousin,” Dergorix says, smiling, as he takes for himself a seat near the band of shadows where Esca crouches, “my brother claims to have had his heart broken by you.”

Esca’s mouth twists ruefully. He is quiet, measuring his words before he answers. “I have.”

“I will grant you that Matudubus is young, but I would not call him quite so ugly.” Dergorix is teasing, as older brothers must.

But Esca is quite serious tonight. “He is not,” he says gently, “and would not have refused without good reason.”

 _Ahhh_ , Dergorix thinks, _so my cousin’s heart is not as cold as the tittering girls say it is_. “May I ask how handsome this reason is, to refuse becoming the first man of Matudubus son of Cingetorix?”

Esca’s head bows in silent laughter, but not before Dergorix sees a flash of something in his eyes that nearly makes him stare. It’s bright and ardent, but it isn’t desire alone. “The reason is handsome indeed,” he says, voice low and adoring, “but…it is in my heart to say I would refuse anyone twice as handsome, if I did not believe my reason to be the fairest anywhere and everywhere I might look.”

Were it anyone but Esca, who has suffered and lost so much, Dergorix would laugh and make light of such candid words. But coming from his kinsman, the survivor, once slave to the Roman scourge, it is a sign that his heart has been touched, and truly. This man, whoever he is, must have the constancy of a river, flowing with unfailing tenacity over the stone where Esca has hidden his heart, caressing his way in. And by the looks of it, he has succeeded.

“Ah.” Dergorix has no words left after that.

Sometime halfway through his watch, a wordless, half-formed idea flourishes in Dergorix’ mind, and it leaves his heart a little cold, like a chill northern wind. Thoughts, suspicion, and something bitter that might flourish into disappointment hover about the quiet.

That night, after many long days of returning to a cold bed by choice, Dergorix allows Kantorix, who is well known for his spear arm, to warm his bedding. They bring each other off in silence, and while Dergorix returns Kantorix’ sated smile when they are done, it slips from his face almost as soon as the other man has turned on his side to sleep.

* * *

After the Vodiae are fought off, after Eriros comes bounding out of the after-battle maelstrom with a look in his eyes like a starving man happening upon a feast that is all and only for Esca, it is the two of them, together, who haul Dergorix to Manduovinda’s roundhouse. It would be fit for a joke, he thinks, if the pain in his side weren’t making Dergorix particularly un-humorous.

The women descend upon Dergorix as soon as Eriros and Esca have left him, prodding and poking and turning him this way and that. His tunic is done away with and water is brought, along with clean knives and herbs and bandaging. He grits his teeth and bares it like a warrior must, and all too soon even that distraction is gone, the women moved on to the next patient, and Dergorix is alone with his thoughts.

It is pointless to wonder, for he can see now that his quarry had been hunted and taken by a more able hand long before Dergorix ever laid eyes on him, the day at the gate. Still, Dergorix thinks back over all he has seen, and tries to find what he has not. All he has now is time, after all.

With a clarity he did not have before, he sees, with his mind’s eye, Eriros and Esca: perhaps their solitude was not solitude. Perhaps they walked alone each day because they were each keeping the other’s place, only truly shedding their isolation for one another. He remembers Esca’s words during the raid and laughs, upsetting his injured ribs: Dergorix might not be in love with Eriros, but he can see him through Esca’s eyes with ease. Poor Matudubus did not know who he was being measured against, and all the better for him that it remain so: a tallish grey duckling, still not yet grown out of his hatchling’s feathers, standing next to an eagle with iridescent eyes.

 _Poor Matudubus_ , Dergorix thinks, half-mad from the pain of his wounds being treated, _never did he stand a chance. And poor Dergorix, who saw it all and yet saw nothing. Nothing at all._

After a short eternity of forge-hot pain, the wounds now lined with mashed herbs hurt just a little less, just enough to bare being alive for. He will survive the wound to his shoulder, and his ribs will heal, Manduovinda declares, but he will have to remain abed for many long days for this to happen.

 _All the better for my heart to heal_ , Dergorix thinks. He does not believe it is broken. But it might just be bruised.

* * *

As the rains and cold winds come with more grit, and Esca and Eriros prepare to leave, Dergorix is finally whole enough to leave his bed. He is on his feet when the time comes to see them off, going back east, to battle and ride, leaving stories in their wake that no bard’s high-flown words could match. There is a half-grown hound pup at Dergorix’ heel as he walks to the two men, already upon their horses by the time he finds them.

“I am saddened to see you leave, my brothers,” Dergorix says, looking up at them both on their mounts, “but I wonder if Caisil is too small for the likes of you. There are more places to see, and stories to tell, yes?”

Esca and Eriros smile in unison. There is, as with their arrival, a curious blend of joy and sorrow, but it is in both their eyes today. It is fitting, Dergorix thinks now, that two such warriors have found each other. Like Cú Chulainn and Láeg they are, a matched pair: one hurls the spear with a straight, unerring arm, one lead the horses of their fate with a firm hand, never to falter or lose the reins.

 “I thank the gods we met, my cousin, and hope you will have a prosperous life, and that we meet again.”

“You speak as if one of us were dying, Esca!” Dergorix exclaims, “My wounds are better, I swear!”

And they all laugh. Eriros looks at him with fondness now, Dergorix notes, a fondness without desire, but now it gladdens him to call such a man a friend, a brother. “And yet I would have you take something of mine.” And he scoops up the puppy, who squeaks with surprise as the ground beneath his paws vanishes.

“One of your hounds? You are sure? You would trust us with one of Lovena’s litter?” Eriros asks, concerned. He understands, better than Esca, that the pups are more precious to Dergorix than all of his fibulae.

“On the contrary. I would trust none _but_ the two of you with one of Lovena’s litter.” The puppy whines then, annoyed at being held aloft, so Dergorix comes around to Esca’s saddlebag. Swaddled in Esca’s spare tunic and blanket, the pup looks out the flap with awe its large, liquid eyes, but does not fidget or try to escape. “He is half trained already, quite good at returning on command.”

“Has he a name?” Esca wonders aloud.

Ah, Dergorix has lived for this moment! “For his tenacity and his remarkable obliviousness (see how he has forgotten me already, tucked snug in your saddlebag, not whining or fidgeting), I have called him Eriros.”

And they laugh, loud, long and surprised.

* * *

There are still smiles on the three men as they part ways, Eriros’ sheepish, Dergorix’ triumphant, Esca’s fond. As he makes his way haltingly back beyond the gates of Caisil, Dergorix sighs, missing them already.

_I wish, ere we meet again, to have found my own Láeg, so that I might appear as infuriatingly happy as you do, my brothers._

**Author's Note:**

> Winter fever: an old name for pneumonia. Pneumonia’s symptoms were first described by the legendary Hippocrates circa 460 BC. I have no proof that the Celts referred to it as winter fever, but it was the most historically plausible name I could find.
> 
> The title for this fic was yanked from a song with plenty of covers (my personal favorite being Celtic Woman’s rendition). It describes a love unrequited, with the spurned lover being very much less mature and forgiving than Dergorix.
> 
> All names not originally found in Until All the Songs Are Sung were created or found using the Celtic Personal Names of Roman Britain Database. I also shamelessly took advantage of Carmarthen's robust research (which take up an entire second chapter of the parent fic).
> 
> Dergorix and Matudubus are Carmarthen’s creations. I hope she doesn’t mind how I’ve plied them full of my own tidbits!
> 
> Lastly: I hope I stayed true to what Carmarthen intended Dergorix' feelings to be. I wanted to make his affections light enough to make his friendship with Marcus possible, as she made it, but also deep enough to merit Dergorix' sad smile when Marcus clearly cared the most for Esca after the Vodiae assault. I feel like I hit the right pitch of his emotions, but feel free to whack me over the head if I didn't.


End file.
